


A Deadly Grace

by Miss M (missm)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Obsession, POV Second Person, Strap-Ons, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 07:16:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/684306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missm/pseuds/Miss%20M
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The question is never which of you is going to cave first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Deadly Grace

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2011 International Day of Femslash Challenge at the hp_femsmut LJ community. My grateful thanks to Mindabbles for the beta; all remaining errors are of course mine.

The question is never which of you is going to cave first.  
  
You watch her as the two of you raise your teacups, as you both take a dainty sip. Her eyes meet yours, calm, inscrutable. You want to stare back, but you can only hold her gaze for a moment before you let your eyes travel, down her throat, her chest, her shapely legs that are casually crossed where they emerge from the short dress she's wearing. You take in the sight of her, right down to the points of her pumps; then your gaze slides back up those legs, to where her thighs meet and disappear, and it lingers, only for a second, but that's more than enough.  
  
You tear your eyes away, concentrating on your cup of tea, willing your cheeks not to heat, painfully aware that she's followed every movement of your gaze. You clear your throat.  
  
"Now, Mrs. Zabini, about your son..."  
  
He's just an excuse. You both know this. No matter the boy's talents, his Head of House is responsible for his education. Not you, even if he excels in your subject. But that hardly matters, because after all it's not unheard of for teachers to take a special interest in a gifted child. Which might entail meetings with the child's parent. In private.  
  
"He's quite talented," you say, watching her place the teacup on the desk between you. The dress shifts as she moves forward, revealing a tantalising glimpse of cleavage. You feel your mouth go dry, and lick your lips as discreetly as you can. "I was wondering if you have thought more about what we discussed last time?" Or pretended to discuss, at any rate.  
  
"Indeed," she says, leaning back in her chair, uncrossing her legs. You shift uneasily. She smiles. "I have had a talk with the Salem Institute about their Summer School. Quite expensive, but worth it -- or that is my impression, at any rate. I daresay you agree, Professor?"  
  
"Oh, certainly." Your mouth is dry, your body tense with anticipation mingled with your half-hearted struggle to retain control over yourself. "Absolutely worth it. He would be given more personalised instruction than we are able to provide here, and..."  
  
Your voice trails off as she smiles again, a slow, sure movement of lips. Her legs are still crossed; as you watch, her hand comes to rest on the upper one, just below the hem. "And?" she prompts.  
  
"And their teachers are among the most outstanding experts in the field," you grind out, your voice strange to your own ears.   
  
This is what she does to you, this woman: she turns you into someone you hardly recognise, someone wild, needy. You have never been needy before. You are self-sufficient, always have been, and the world has come to see you as such. To others, you are stern, dry, measured. For her, you become pliant, helpless. Wet.   
  
So wet, in fact, that you almost think she'll be able to smell it as you cross your legs in turn, desperately clawing at what's left of your self-restraint, what little of it did not evaporate as soon as she walked into the room. You have no idea how she does it; moreover, you have no idea how someone like her came to be in this room, with you. She's the sort of woman for whom men kill -- or, more to the point in her specific case, are killed -- and yet she's come to you. Like she does, now and then, when you've fought long enough with yourself and lost, finally caving and writing the letter that asks for a meeting.   
  
She's like a tiger, all dangerous beauty and deadly grace. Against the likes of her the tabbies of the world stand no chance.   
  
Right now, she is back to sipping her tea, a glint of amusement in her dark eyes. It humiliates you, that she's able to toy with you like that, and it arouses you, to have her so close that she can do whatever she wants.   
  
And she will, in the end, the way she always does. The way she could do whatever she pleased back in her schooldays, break whatever rule she liked, and there would always be some poor besotted sod close by, ready to take the blame. You saw through her back then, not that it helped. You couldn't do anything. In fact, you knew it was safer to stay away from the girl, because even then you felt her pull, that indescribable _something_ that could get a man killed and make a spinster schoolteacher lose her dignity and her career.  
  
But when you met her again years later, you could resist no more.  
  
She's looking into your eyes now. Your heart is hammering. Neither of you move; you're both waiting. Not to see who will cave first -- because that will be you, it's always you. You wait, stretching the moment for as long as possible. You are perfectly in control, you tell yourself, knowing it to be a lie. You can wait forever, if you have to.  
  
And then you face the truth, like the Gryffindor you are.  
  
You stand up. Instantly, she does the same, placing her cup on the desk again. Your lips part, but no words come out; your eyes probably say more than enough, because her smile widens, becomes almost sympathetic. "Undress," she says.  
  
You do as she says, without a moment's hesitation. You'd do anything she asks you to in a heartbeat. She's the most dangerous woman you have ever known.  
  
When your robes are gone and you're standing there naked, hair still pinned up, she looks you up and down, a pleased expression on her face. What a woman like her could want with an elderly schoolteacher, you have no idea, but you're grateful despite yourself, as ever. She nods towards the desk. "Bend over," she says.  
  
Even if you'd like to protest -- you want to watch her, and now she's standing behind you -- you can't. You can't deny her anything, and so you brace yourself against your desk, sweaty palms on the wooden surface. She moves behind you, snaking a hand around your waist, trailing it upwards until it cups your right breast. "Do you like that, Professor?" she asks, a warm huff in your ear.  
  
"Yes," you croak as her fingers find a nipple, play with it.   
  
"What about this?" Her other hand is on your hip now, sliding towards your groin, far too slowly. "Would you like me to touch you?"  
  
"Yes!" It's almost a wail, and you wince. Her fingers squeeze your nipple, sending sharp electric signals through your body, making the throbbing between your legs grow even more relentless. "Yes, yes, please..."  
  
"Please _what_ , Professor?"  
  
Her voice is low in your ear. You can hear the smile in it. She pushes against your back for a moment, and even though she still has her dress on, you can feel her breasts through the layer of clothing. You gasp.  
  
"Touch me," you babble with the voice of a stranger. "Touch me now, please, please..."  
  
There's the faintest press of lips against your neck as her hand finally moves between your legs, and your knees buckle. She caresses you with slow, steady motions, not quite hard enough; she withdraws her hand ever so slightly when you try to arch against it. "Stand still," she whispers.   
  
Long, elegant fingers find their way inside you and on you, and you bite your lip, trying not to moan too loudly. It's different every time you are together: sometimes there's just the fingers, playing with you until you can take it no longer and let yourself go in a desperate orgasm, sometimes she barely touches you at all. There's no point in asking, only receiving what she chooses to give you; yet you can't help groaning when the fingers disappear. She laughs.  
  
"Wait a second," she says.  
  
There's a rustle, as if she's pulling up her dress. A muttered charm, presumably to make sure the skirt stays up, then another that -- oh heavens, if that means what you think it means...  
  
A knee nudges between your own. "Spread them wider," she commands, and you do so without even thinking. You are so wet and open it aches.  
  
When the large shaft presses against you, you start at first, but then spread your thighs as far as you can, tilting your hips -- eager, wanton, like a cat in heat. She grips your hips, bending her head to bite your shoulder. The dildo sinks into you, slowly at first, hard and steadfast. You long to reach behind you and touch her, but dare not let go of the desk.  
  
"I'm going to fuck you, Professor," she murmurs into your ear. "Would you like that?"  
  
" _Yes_ ," you groan, not caring how helpless and pathetic you sound. "Yes, _please_ , fuck me, fuck me..."  
  
She pulls back a little, moving her hands to cup your breasts, squeezing them as she sinks back in, harder this time. You cry out. She thrusts again, and again, and again, teeth scraping your shoulder, your neck; it's hard and borderline painful and almost too much, yet it's not enough, can never be enough.  
  
You come first, as always, shuddering from head to toe as you collapse face down on your desk. She doesn't let go, but fucks you through it, and when she gives in at last, it's with a soft moan and a tremble and a contented sigh.  
  
She lets you both rest there, unmoving, for a while, then she pulls out of you, leaving you feeling empty and wide. "I take it you approve of my Transfiguration work, Professor," she says, and there's laughter in her voice.   
  
You turn your head wearily. As you watch, the dildo -- silvery, and with a considerable girth, as you have already noted -- and the harness transform themselves into elegant, lacy knickers. "Indeed," you say, voice faint as she puts away her wand. "Most impressive."  
  
"There seems to be a gift for Transfiguration running in the family," she smiles, settling back into her chair once more. "It's part of why I'm so pleased to see Blaise taking an interest in it. And of course -- " She pauses, meeting your eyes where you are still lying half-bent over your desk. "-- I'm very happy he has a teacher who takes such an interest in him."  
  
"My pleasure." Your cheeks are burning now, as you slowly stand to gather your clothes. The thrill is already fading, leaving behind it the dull ache of embarrassment and regret. Later, there will be the slow, burning hunger that won't let go, that keeps nagging until you write another letter. You try not to think about it.   
  
You button up your robes, all the way up. Some strands of your hair have come loose; you fasten them as tightly as you can. She watches you without a comment. When you're done, you sit down in your own chair, the desk between you.   
  
"About that Summer School," you say, concentrating on the matter at hand. Perhaps you can still convince yourself that you have any dignity left.


End file.
